“Cup of coffee. Please,” I grit out to the Black woman. I recognize her from a town meeting. She and her husband own this establishment. Or rather, I own it and they lease the space from me.
Her mouth agape, she wordlessly pours a cup and slides it across the sticky, overly-lacquered wood surface.
I nod before picking it up and taking a couple large swigs.
Renaldo takes a normal-sized sip beside me.
His eyes go wide.
“Not a word,” I say.
It is, by far, no contest, the most disgusting cup of coffee I’ve ever tasted.
I try not to cough. Or die.
Shit.
Okay, so maybe it’s me who’s made a huge mistake.
Not that I’ll ever say so out loud.
The Grill must have coffee.
Hell, the town a few miles away has a Starbucks, I think.
And I’m a grown man. I can buy an espresso machine and make my own coffee.
All fine.
All preferable to having to deal with Harper. I’ve months to go before I can hand this project off to a manager. Until then, I’ll just have to avoid her as much as possible.
CHAPTER 8
Harper
Happy place. Happy place. This is home. I love it here.
I take a deep breath as I open the door to the garage.
“Dad! I’m home!”
No reply. Not unusual. I enter through the backdoor like I have a million times, since I was a child. I glance at the hodgepodge gallery wall Lily and I put up when we were teens and try to absorb all the cheery vibes. We were so proud of our first decorating project.
First and last.
I ignore my surroundings as I pass through my mother’s dream kitchen in all its early 2000’s glory. Someday I’ll rip it out and redesign it…if I ever make enough money…if the store doesn’t close…
“Oh, don’t get up,” I say when I hit the living room and see Dad trying to stand. He’s still parked in his chair, which is the usual.
I give him a kiss on the head, “So, how was today?”
He starts coughing and trying to clear his throat, also the norm. I hand him his water glass and will my face not to revealany sadness or pity. It is sad, though. It’s like he’s trying to find his old voice, which was a rich, happy sound. But it’s gone.
“Fine,” he eventually rasps. “Betty brought brownies, very good. But she made me walk, awful. New renters had their music blaring, gave me a headache.”
“Do you still have a headache now? Want me to get you something?”
He nods and then lies back, spent already. Coughing and talking both wipe him out, especially if he did physical therapy earlier today. I go get the meds from the kitchen and peek out the window over the sink. The rental looks the same as always. I can’t even tell someone’s in there.
